Confession – Huda Javed

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

My name is Huda Javed, I’m 16 years old. This poem was inspired by my observation in the difference between the generation of British-Pakistani’s, who grew up within a new, modernised culture, compared with that of my parents, who grew up in Pakistan. It highlights that the youngerBest generation values different things and aspects of life compared with previous generations. I used the object of hair as it is a symbol in Pakistan, among women, of youth. The poem expresses underlying tones of nostalgia and an ignorance to what we possess when we are young.

Confession

My mother cried,

When I cut my hair.

–

When she saw the dark locks,

Littered on the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

–

It was just so heavy,

Like carrying a sack,

Laden with stones.

–

Too weighty to pile atop my head,

Too much to let loose,

Too wild to set free.

–

A creature of its own, that battled me daily –

It clawed as I combed,

Snarled when I gathered it roughly,

Forcing it into a knot –

That I knew wouldn’t hold.

–

When I washed it with water,

It yowled and it yapped

When I tamed it with oils and sweet-smelling ointments,

It scowled and it snorted

At my futile attempts.

–

I gave up on my efforts,

Left it to grow and bask

In its short victory –

The ends grew wispy, rough and neglected,

Split with confusion and weak with dejection.

The wild mass grew tired and lost its spirit,

–

The fearless black, of a starless night sky,

Faded, into a cloudy dusk.

–

Holding my scissors,

Before I could hesitate and think of

The severity of this cut,

At the missing cape that fell to my waist

At the fresh strands that would brush my shoulders

And the plait that wouldn’t snake down

My spine

But tickle my neck with starker ends.

–

I looked at the floor,

And saw what my mother would see,

Not dark locks covering my feet

And the white tiles

Of the bathroom floor.

But a rejection –

Of a gift,

Of the motherland

She left behind –

When she had hair that shone in the blistering sun

And sailed past her waist,

That whipped in the wind

And flew in her face.

–

Hair that was her pride

And her fading grace –

That she lost

When the strands grew limp and tired with age.

She put up a fight,

Caring and nursing

With oils and ointments that came from the garden

Trying to preserve

The rich dark river

That flowed down her back,

Burdened with honour and gladness.

–

The missing weight,

That used to drag at my head –

A reminder to her

Of the step that I took,

Away from home –

–

A lesson

For when the strands go limp and tired with age,

–

Of the dark, fearless cape,

Of a starless night sky

That once brushed my waist.

Huda Javed

Did you enjoy this poem? Why not visit Maggie’s website at: Maggie’s Centre Nottingham to find out more about their exceptional work and/or make a donation. Do you have a poem you would like to submit to Voices? Feel free to do so by email at: voicespoetry@outlook.com or via the ‘Contact’ page on this site.

Streets of Hockley – Emma Wing

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops

My name is Emma. I live in Nottingham

The Streets of Hockley

The rainbow road leads to the forgotten shops. You have bookshops, restaurants and even a cow outside a café.

These little streets have so much for everyone. Bargain books at Bookwise. Bargain at Sue Ryder and even something for Goths at Jugglers.

These little streets are so vibrant. Something for everyone. Even crystals for the spiritual at Ica Nine. Which has been serving Nottingham for a good few years.

After all your bargain hunting at the shops. Take a rest at one of the many pubs or independent cafes. Especially the one with the famous cow outside.

Support our local businesses before it’s a dying trade.

Emma Wing

Breakfast in the Village – Josh G Hamshar

Fried, boiled, poached?

Josh has had several pieces of writing published in the last couple of months, both online and in anthologies. Alternating between observation and personal meaning, his eclectic style can range from war and politics, to peacefulness, nature and humour.

Breakfast in the village

The waiter brings a plate of pigs

entangled in unethical crowds

of scrambled clouds

Fried, boiled, poached?

With coffee to make the most

The

honey

drips

toast

And the ferry slides through like bread in the yolk

Josh G Hamshar

Alone – Rohan Mathews

I know that the barbarians search for me

I am submitting on behalf of my 12 year old son, Rohan Mathews. Rohan has written the following poem.

Alone

I am alone.

I used to proudly parade the deep lush forests, the beauty of the land.

I walked with family the ones who were close to me, the ones who I loved, but that all changed…

I walk the plains alone, my stomach aching with hunger, fearful that they will come back.

Those people, stealing all the food, burning the forests and killing my family.

My herd was cut down, I ran and I ran from the painful, sharp cracks echoing in the distance and one by one my family fell.

I felt the sadness and utter hatred as I ran from the bangs and the crying of my family.

My mother, my father, my siblings brought to the ground with no remorse, their skin removed.

The people wore the very fur that was once proudly gleaming on my family, my family reduced to cold carcasses lying on the cold hard floor.

I know that the barbarians search for me, wearing the skin of my own mother, father, brother and sister.

I now roam the wilderness alone frightened, my red fur corrupted and my ribs sticking out, I’m scared that those sadistic things will come back for me.

I am a red deer and I am the last of my kind I live a life of limping in the cold barren landscape searching for the food that deep down I know will never come…

Rohan Mathews, aged 12

Factories Will Rule The World – Simeon Filipov

We mustn’t radiate, let hate propagate and our trees decapitate

Simeon Filipov, 14. I am passionate about climate change. I want to share my views, inspire the masses and motivate change and salvation. Through poetry, I can express my views and dedication, and I aspire for my work to be an inspiration, to spark the thought that there is survival still on offer so let’s forget intergalactic migration)

Factories Will Rule The World

They tell me it is too late

They tell me that we have to accept our fate

And I say, why are you taking the bait?

There is no point to underestimate

Yes, our extinction we accelerate

Because to me, ourselves we asphyxiate

There is no need for Mother to irritate

We mustn’t radiate, let hate propagate and our trees decapitate

We must cooperate, educate and salvation motivate

It is still a clean slate

And to the moon, I wouldn’t want to emigrate

Because between me and you, global annihilation wasn’t deliberate

Globally we must communicate and a simple solution we can’t cultivate

Or do you need me to translate

STOP POLLUTING OUR BEAUTIFUL EARTH IF A SUSTAINABLE SOLUTION YOU CAN’T FORMULATE

It is never too late. We are a unified nation so let’s save the universe’s most beautiful creation

For normality to return will take dedication. so let’s not take survival out of the equation

Simeon Filipov, 14

Counting Stars – Brian Wake

we went outside and gazed at stars

Brian Wake

Born in Liverpool. Published in the UK and abroad. Work broadcast

On BBC TV (BBC 2), Radio 4 and local radio (Merseyside). Books published

By Headland Publications, England and Driftwood Publication (UK)

Counting Stars

In the early hours then, sometime between

not wanting to get up and needing to,

expectant silences, the visual discrepancy

between gunmetal blues of fading night

and gorgeous morning, my father walked

the landing half asleep.

He asked me if… do I, he said, still work,

and should I shave, and if his bus was due.

I turned him back and closed his bedroom

door, and wondered if, at some god-help-me time,

I too would walk the landing half asleep

and if my children might be near

to keep me from unutterable despair.

Against conditions such as these, to question

how and why we live and breathe is somehow

quite absurd. That night, a little time ago,

we went outside and gazed at stars.

My father counting them, my children asking

what they mean and me caught somewhere

in between what matters everyday

and what is meaningless.

Brian Wake

Caspian Reid – Each Daily Watering

I stand on tiptoe and stretch my arm to pour water

Caspian Reid is an artist and writer living in Edinburgh, Scotland. When not working cataloguing books in the library, they can be found by the sea, or buried in their local bookshop.

Each Daily Watering

There is a plant

in my windowsill.

It is one in a long series

of attempts to pour love through my fingertips

A desire to nurture,

to steward.

There have been many

and I have loved each in turn

as they passed by,

A victim of sun or dark

Drought or deluge

Too small a container

A cat’s curious paw

or simply my own forgetfulness.

Oh, the petals scattered

on roads of good intentions.

But back to my windowsill

And the pot sitting in gentle daylight.

Every day

I stand on tiptoe and stretch my arm to pour water,

Lifting myself as I hope to lift the green, green leaves

And I feel something flow between us

nameless, wordless.

A wish, I’d call it,

Without wanting to seem childish;

A wish for revival,

Each daily watering a renewed vow –

I am here.

I will keep being here

If you do too.

And every new leaf feels like a pact:

We’re growing together.

I try my best to be reliable,

instill a routine of water

and sunlight

(such a simple thing to ask for,

such an impossible thing to conjure.)

Sometimes I forget

And the guilt is soft but undeniable;

My plant does not say anything when I give it extra water

to make up for yesterday’s absent-mindness,

But I write post-it note reminders

And stick them on walls

Above the sink, beside the kettle, on the TV.

My plant does not say anything

When I forget again, despite my best intentions

But I pour water with extra tenderness

All the same.

Caspian Reid

A Rainy Walk – Isabella McCullough

It sounds like the rain is crunching my hood

I’d like to submit a poem on behalf of my daughter, Isabella McCullough.Isabella is 12 yrs old and enjoys walking in the rain – (this poem came back on a soggy piece of paper as she’d written it as she walked, stopping here and there to write a further line) – and curling up with her dog to read by the fire!

A Rainy Walk

A grey stream runs along the side of the road
Trees not far away are misty
The puddles are the same red brown as the path
Delicate drips on leaves
It sounds like the rain is crunching my hood
The grass is bent under the wind and rain
Puddles bubble as a foot lands inside
Mud coloured marsh reeds leaning
Water in a small river rippling
The sky is a dripping blanket
Pond weed cakes the black river water
Swifts being blown by the wind
Wild flowers dotted like gems
The wind makes flowers and bushes sway and dance
The rain comes in pinpricks hurled by the wind.

Isabella McCullough, aged 12

The World of the Net – Penny Evans

Cyberspace fantasies came with a cost

Many thanks to Penny Evans of Buxton, Derbyshire for her topical and inspiring poem. We are sure everyone will be able to relate to Penny’s message. A keen poet, Penny has been crafting verse for many years now and has been published in a variety of formats. Penny is also a trained singer, having performed professionally in the past. She often appears at charity events where she kindly shares her talents. We really appreciate Penny’s decision to share ‘The World of the Net’.

THE WORLD OF THE NET

by Penny Evans

Once on a time in the World of the Net

Places were formed where certain folk met

Respectable banter

Where minds merged with minds

Close Encounters of the Intelligent Kind!

–

No one was more important than the other

Everyone was treated like a sister or brother

‘Celebrity’ status and ‘fan’ did not matter

This refuge was a place of safety and chatter

–

For a few years at least

Till reality replaced

This very intimate ‘human’ space

Jealousy then reared its ugly head

What had been full of laughter

Was now pronounced dead!

–

Cyberspace fantasies came with a cost

People drifted away

And friendships were lost

Words can be so powerful

Manipulative as well

Not so very hard to fall under their spell

–

Time passed

Then big business took over the land

Only power and greed made this universe expand

A network was formed leaving small rooms forlorn

And sadly the World of the Net was reborn!

–

The writing on the Wall was deciphered all wrong

When Myspace, then Facebook and Twitter came along

Then social media ran over roughshod

Acting like some kind of over-crazed God!

–

Every flesh and blood human had freedom to speak

The World was their oyster

Which made some people weak

Allowing their innermost demons to rise

Words became weapons

Truth became lies

–

Security and Privacy seemed to be no more

Since all had the power to open that door!

Insecurities and egos now emerged as one

And the World of the Net

Became a time ticking bomb!

–

Obsessions ran riot

Innocents got hurt

Which made some of us realise

We should be more alert!

–

We must share social media to spread joy and peace

Calm down the fears and let love be released!

To always keep honesty and truth up your sleeve Otherwise…

What the Hell is left to believe?

Penny Evans, Buxton, Derbyshire

Pannus – Robert Smith

That could not pass as do the shadows

I’d like to enter a poem for the Voices competition. My name is Robert Smith and I’m deeply inspired by nature and romantic poetry. I’m currently a neuroscience student and I’m particularly interested in how the wiring and biology of our brains can convert so beautifully, if sometimes inadvertently, into verse.

Pannus

And so my soul sat

Beneath the branches

Of some old oak tree.

–

Crisp, erratic beats broke

Softly

Above me,

As black and gold light fell

Like an unbounded aerial locomotive

Across the wood that stood

In front of me

Turbulent and free.

–

I quite contented to

Spend the life there,

Near narrow brooks

By occluded orchards.

–

There was song to the wind

And sight to the sunset.

All whilst my company cackled

From height and sward.

–

Yet with darkness came distension.

The stars cast a shadow

Over my heart

That could not pass as do the shadows

Of the light.

–

My heart, my soul could be as one

If only thought could fly and wind could speak

So that my heart would move its shadow

With the changing of the air.

And then I might sit happily,

Beneath this olden oak

For evermore.

–

Yet like a stream my heart did flow

In relentless fashion.

Far away from here,

To prison.

For a man does know

That his strength has purpose.

A purpose that cannot be excised

Or sculpted, or moved.

A purpose that holds

All fate together.

A purpose beyond one’s own soul,

Beyond desire

Beyond life itself.

To fight, to serve

To endure.

Robert Smith